


evidence suggests

by nysscientia



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Canon-Typical Violence, F/F, First Kiss, Hurt/Comfort, Magical Lydia Martin, Scent Marking, Temporary Character Death, Werewolf Allison Argent
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-09-11
Updated: 2014-09-11
Packaged: 2018-02-16 22:53:09
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,631
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2287448
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nysscientia/pseuds/nysscientia
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When she resurfaces, it’s violently, gasping into consciousness.  Once she’s gotten her breathing under control, she realizes she’s crouched, ready to pounce, staring up at her dad and Isaac and Dr. Deaton from the floor of the vet’s office.</p><p>Deaton reaches out a hand to help her up.  Isaac makes a quiet sound, almost a whine.  Her father’s eyes are wet.</p><p>She can pick out each of their heartbeats individually, and Deaton grasps her palm delicately to avoid her claws.</p>
            </blockquote>





	evidence suggests

**Author's Note:**

> Warnings (beyond those mentioned in the tags) for some brief mentions of underage drinking and sexual interaction between characters who I believe are both underage in canon. Canon-compliant through most of 3B.

Allison has a quiver of silver arrows, and her friends are in danger, and she can’t stand the way the nogitsune is twisting Stiles’ face.  She doesn’t plan or calculate or strategize; she barely thinks.  It’s all instinct.  She pushes forward.  
  
Everything happens very fast.  
  
Her stomach splits open.  Someone’s screaming.  At first she assumes it’s her, but the sound is far away and all-encompassing and her own mouth is closed, anyway, something wet seeping between her lips.  
  
She’s aware, distantly, of Scott barreling towards her.  She can’t see anything very well; it’s too loud.  The sound fills her up, surging through her like an electric current, too big for her skin.  The only solid thing left in the world is the cold blade through her gut and Allison coughs, groans, lets the noise burst free and white out her thoughts.  
  
-  
  
When she resurfaces, it’s violently, gasping into consciousness.  Once she’s gotten her breathing under control, she realizes she’s crouched, ready to pounce, staring up at her dad and Isaac and Dr. Deaton from the floor of the vet’s office.  
  
Deaton reaches out a hand to help her up.  Isaac makes a quiet sound, almost a whine.  Her father’s eyes are wet.  
  
She can pick out each of their heartbeats individually, and Deaton grasps her palm delicately to avoid her claws.  
  
-  
  
Scott arrives only minutes after ending his call with her dad.  Either he broke a lot of traffic laws on his way or he risked supernatural speeds in several busy neighborhoods.  
  
Her father steps back, releasing her from his embrace for the first time since Deaton helped her to a seat on one of his exam tables.  He and Scott talk for a moment, exchanging status updates.  Allison’s heart thuds swollenly in her chest to hear that Stiles is sleeping comfortably, alone in his own mind.  Then her dad turns, cups her jaw for a fleeting second, asks if she’ll be okay.  
  
“Yeah,” she answers.  “I want to talk to Scott.”  
  
He nods.  She gives him her best smile, and his eyes shine overbright again.  She’s not sure how to make him stop tearing up.  
  
Her dad leaves, and then it’s just her and Scott and Isaac.  Maybe it should be weird, she thinks, but she can’t bring herself to think of either of them as lovers or exes or even friends.  In that moment, they’re– something else.  
  
Scott tries to tell her what happened, but he barely knows himself.  Isaac fills in what he can.  Even between the two of them, there are a lot of blanks.  
  
“Deaton said he doesn’t even know how Lydia did it,” Isaac says.  Allison turns to Scott; he opens his mouth to argue, then closes it again, conceding.  
  
“Not in those words,” he hedges.  “But pretty much.  Necromancy is supposed to be forbidden and way advanced, even for banshees.”  
  
“Necromancy,” Allison repeats, because that’s the part she’s stuck on.  To hear them tell it, she died.  
  
She was _dead_.  
  
And then Lydia decided that she shouldn’t be dead, so she wasn’t.  
  
She still had a fatal wound gaping in her gut, though, which is how she became the first person to receive Scott’s Bite.  
  
Allison’s hand drifts to her stomach.  The skin is smooth and unbroken, not even a faint scar as a reminder.  It makes her feel– incomplete.  False, somehow.  Her parents believed in remembering one’s mistakes, in learning from them.  She has all kinds of tiny nocks in the flesh of her hands from her earliest attempts to shoot a bow.  
  
Scott obviously can’t find anything else to say.  Isaac is hovering just behind him, watching her from over Scott’s shoulder, in deference or apprehension or something else.  
  
She draws in a long, shuddering breath.  She has an absurd impulse to apologize, the words pushing up her throat; she clicks her jaw shut.  As much as she hates the haunted looks on everyone’s faces tonight, Allison’s sure she’d do it all again if she had to.  It’d be insulting to pretend she regrets it.  
  
Scott’s eyes trace back and forth over her face a few times, and then he lifts his chin just slightly, and somehow that minute shift translates into a radical change in his body language, everything about his presence so reassuringly _alpha_ that some of the tension drains out of the room.  
  
He pulls her into a hug, and she goes eagerly, hesitating only for a second to glance at Isaac.  Scott doesn’t follow her gaze– maybe didn’t even notice her moment of reluctance– but abruptly he tugs Isaac in too, and they all collapse against the exam table, six legs tangling clumsily as they sink to the floor.  
  
“I’m really glad you’re okay,” Scott murmurs.  Allison realizes her cheeks are wet.  There’s a soft sound from behind her, this one definitely a whine; she yanks Isaac’s arms tighter around her.  Maybe she sobs a little bit herself.  
  
Huddled on the floor with them, she realizes what they feel like, now– why it doesn’t feel strange to curl up with the two of them, why they’re not her former boyfriends or rivals for her affection or even two of her best friends.  
  
They’re her pack.  
  
-  
  
It seems weird, after something so physically momentous, that Allison needs only a cursory examination before she’s approved to head home.  But that’s about to become her new normal, so she might as well start getting used to it.  
  
Scott holds both her hands in his, explains to her the basics of how to control her new instincts– not unlike Deaton’s advice for dealing with the nemeton’s shadow, actually– and promises to keep his phone with him 24/7.  Isaac just nods that he’ll do the same, blatantly slipping on a persona of nonchalance to avoid dealing.  It might be for her benefit as much as his own, Allison thinks; she’s worn so thin that the only feeling she’s really aware of is exhaustion and a dim sense of incredulity.  The emotions can wait.  
  
Which is why she eventually pulls her hands out of Scott’s, tells him to go back to Stiles.  
  
“He’ll want you there when he wakes up,” she says, sure that it’s true.  “I’ll be fine.  I could use some time with my dad.”  
  
Scott gives her a measuring look before conceding.  
  
“Call me,” he repeats, then cocks his head towards Isaac, who follows him out.  
  
Once his bike rumbles out of earshot, Allison drops back onto the exam table, breathes for what feels like a long time.  The world is a lot bigger, a lot more tiring to process.  She doesn’t open her eyes when her dad comes into the room, but she hears him, smells him.  His scent is just as articulate as facial expressions or body language, but it’s a stranger to her, something she’ll have to learn to read.  She knows him well enough, though, to be sure without looking that he’s overwhelmed, that he doesn’t know how to begin processing what’s happened.  This is so far beyond anything he’s been taught how to deal with.  Beyond anything her mom had been willing to deal with.  
  
Allison swallows hard, then swings her legs over the edge of the exam table and climbs down in one motion.  
  
“Can you drive me?  There’s something I need to do,” she says into the silence.  
  
She wasn’t lying when she said she needed time with her father, but she did make some misleading implications about when she’d be spending that time.  
  
Her dad looks like he wants to argue, but he acquiesces.  He lets her give the orders more and more often lately.  She wonders what that’ll mean, if she’s pack now.  Then she dismisses the line of thought as too much, too soon.  
  
He doesn’t really need them, but Allison still gives him directions on the way to Lydia’s.  
  
-  
  
After almost ten minutes of knocking, Mrs. Martin answers the door, wearing a puzzled expression and ratty old slippers with her designer pantsuit.  She explains that Lydia’s spending the night with a friend, and her heart skips.  Allison suspects Mrs. Martin thought they were both at the Argent house.  
  
So Allison fakes a self-deprecating laugh, pretends to remember that Lydia had plans with Cora– “another friend from school,” she has to explain, and tries not to wonder how often Lydia and Mrs. Martin actually talk– and walks down the house’s long driveway into the dark.  
  
Once she’s sure Mrs. Martin has disappeared inside, she circles around.  She can smell Lydia; she must’ve snuck back in through the back.  
  
Allison finally understands how Scott got onto her roof so many times.  It’s pretty easy, actually, to leap up to the sill, cling to the window frame for balance with one hand while knocking on the pane with the other.  
  
Lydia’s got her back to the window.  Her hand flies to cover her mouth when she hears the knock, and she whirls, face tear-streaked and thunderous.  When she sees it’s Allison, though, her face crumples.  Her gait towards the window is uneven, like she doesn’t trust her knees to stay solid underneath her.  
  
Seeing Lydia’s expression is, somehow, the thing that makes it real for Allison.  Her heart stopped beating.  She could’ve stayed there, could’ve been lost in that fight with the nogitsune, and there would’ve been a police report and then a funeral and– and– Allison flings herself forward, burying her face in Lydia’s neck, breathing in the warmth of her.  
  
They stay that way for a long time.  
  
“You’re my best friend,” Lydia whispers, eventually, voice thick and wet.  “You’re my best friend, you can’t– you’re not allowed to leave me.  I don’t know what I’d do without you.”  
  
“Me too, me too,” Allison murmurs into her hair, pulling her closer.  “I’m here.  We’re here.”  
  
She keeps up a mantra of similar semi-nonsensical phrases, trying to keep her voice low and soothing, as Lydia pulls her over to the bed.  She sits down heavily, and Allison takes the space immediately next to her, pressing their legs together.  She tangles her fingers with Lydia’s, holds her hand while Lydia breaks down.  
  
Her sobs subside within just a few minutes, and then she’s wiping mascara from her cheeks, lifting her chin again.  
  
“You should go,” she announces, suddenly.  
  
Allison frowns.  “What?  Why?”  
  
“We still need to figure out what to do about the nogitsune,” she says, “and you need to rest.  You’ll need time to adjust.”  
  
“Lydia–” Allison argues, but Lydia cuts her off.  
  
“Allison,” she snaps, voice high and clear.  “Go and learn.  You won’t be any use until you can control yourself in a battle.”  
  
Stung, Allison reels back.  She stands.  It’s– too much, she decides, and bolts for Lydia’s open window.  
  
-  
  
It’s the last real conversation they have for almost a month.  After that night, there’s a showdown with the nogitsune, then a crash course in werewolf training from Scott and occasionally Isaac.  Lydia stays aloof, voice light and airy, tosses her hair over her shoulder when she speaks to Allison and never gives any hint at how she’s feeling.  It’s almost like when Allison first moved to Beacon Hills.  
  
It’s excruciating.  
  
Three weeks later, Allison successfully takes Isaac down during sparring without even shifting into her beta form.  She stands, dusts off her hands, and smiles to herself; her control is good.  Great, even.  Scott extends a hand to help her up, pronounces her “impressive,” and Allison decides that it’s time.  
  
She goes back to the Martin house.  Mrs. Martin is wearing pumps, and she lets Allison in without asking any questions.  
  
“She’s upstairs,” Lydia’s mom says.  “I think she could use someone to talk to.”  
  
Allison half-smiles.  “So could I.”  
  
Mrs. Martin nods like she gets it.  Maybe in a way she does.  Allison gives her a grateful look before heading upstairs, knocking gently on Lydia’s door.  
  
“Come in,” Lydia’s voice calls back breezily.  
  
Allison opens the door, and then there’s a frozen moment where they both look at one another.  
  
“Hello, Allison,” Lydia says, regaining her composure.  She sprawls back on her bed, practically posing.  “Did you want to talk about our calc project?”  
  
Allison grits her teeth.  It used to charm her, but she knows Lydia too well for the persona to do anything but grate anymore.  
  
“No,” she says.  
  
Lydia’s expression closes off.  “What can I do for you, then?”  
  
“I wanted to talk to you about what happened that night.”  
  
Lydia bounces back off of her bed, drifts over to her vanity.  She starts rearranging the jewelry on it.  Her back is to Allison.  
  
“I already told you– I told everyone– I don’t know what happened.”  
  
“I know,” Allison replies.  “That’s– actually what I wanted to talk about.”  
  
“Well, I don’t know what else there is to say,” Lydia snaps, and drops the bangles she’s holding.  They clatter loudly against her porcelain jewelry stand.  “So unless you’ve suddenly solved the mystery of my powers, I don’t–”  
  
“Lydia!” Allison interrupts, alarmed.  Lydia’s hands are shaking.  Before she realizes, Allison’s crossing the room, taking those hands into her own.  
  
“You know no one blames you, right?” she asks.  “I don’t blame you.  I didn’t want to be a werewolf, but now that I am– it’s worth it.”  
  
Lydia’s biting her lip, eyes on the ceiling.  Allison cups her cheek in one hand, tries to catch her gaze.  “You saved my life.”  
  
Lydia doesn’t say anything for a long moment, and Allison feels herself tensing, muscles coiling.  She has no idea what to expect, but her instincts are preparing her for a fight.  
  
“Yours,” Lydia mutters, then.  It’s so quiet Allison’s supernatural range of hearing kicks into gear.  
  
“I saved yours.  How many others could I have– should I–”  
  
Understanding pours through Allison like acid, stinging and bitter.  “No, Lydia,” she finds herself saying.  “No, no, no.  You can’t save everyone.”  
  
“I didn’t even save you right!” Lydia bursts out.  She yanks her hands out of Allison’s grip, takes several quick steps back, whirls to face out the window.  “If I had just seen it more clearly, I could’ve made sure you weren’t even there.  I could’ve– but I waited until it was too late, until you were already– and then when I brought you back, you were still bleeding.”  
  
She folds her arms around herself, hands smoothing up and down her own arms, like she’s trying to warm up.  “You bled for so long.”  
  
Allison watches Lydia’s hands move and aches.  She wants to pull her back into her arms, breathe her in the way she did those weeks ago.  She jams her hands into her pockets, instead.  
  
“But I stopped.”  
  
Lydia takes a deep, shuddering breath.  She keeps staring out the window at her backyard.  
  
Allison chances a single step forward, doesn’t trust herself to take more.  
  
“And I miss you,” she adds.  Lydia still doesn’t move, but Allison hears her heart stutter.  She waits another few minutes, then decides that maybe that’s enough, maybe that’s all she needed to say.  
  
“You know how to reach me,” she says, and leaves.  
  
-  
  
Lydia never does text, but the next morning she drops into the seat next to Allison’s for first period and starts complaining about how she can’t use any of her favorite perfumes anymore because all her friends are werewolves.  It’s the first time she’s brought up Allison’s new pack status in any non-life-threatening situation, and Allison doesn’t care how petty Lydia sounds.  She can’t stop grinning.  
  
The rest of the day feels like the first time she’s really seen Lydia in months.  Possibly since the alpha pack first showed up.  There are still moments– Allison flashes gold eyes to Scott at the lunch table, during a conversation about the pack, and Lydia goes rigid– so it’s not the same, but it’s still good.  It feels like maybe it’ll even be better, eventually.  
  
After school, Lydia slams Allison’s locker shut and announces, “You’re giving me a ride home.”  
  
Allison rolls her eyes and redoes her locker combination, because she still needs another book– but she also tucks her water bottle into her bag so Lydia can put her coffee into one of the front cup holders, and Lydia seems to understand.  
  
-  
  
Lydia invites Allison to her house that Saturday, saying they’ll need a whole day for finishing their calc project and then “celebrating being young and hot and superpowered.”  
  
Allison rereads the texts six different times during the week, desperate for the weekend to roll around.  Saturday morning, she spends half an hour more than usual picking out an outfit.  
  
She chides herself for it– it’s just studying– but she also wears the lipstick Lydia once said makes her complexion look flawless.  
  
They lock themselves in the Martins’ study with a hoard of Lydia’s mom’s flavored carbonated water and work on calc for three straight hours.  It’s the most like a teenaged girl Allison’s felt in ages.  When she’s focusing on the papers in front of her, clicking around on Google, her heightened senses aren’t really a factor.  She doesn’t need weapons or battle tactics or superhuman healing.  Taking down the nogitsune seems to have granted them some sort of reprieve from the preternatural, at least for awhile, and Allison’s mind drifts towards the upcoming formal and plans for spring break.    
  
Lydia tells her three times to pay attention to her graphs.  She sounds too fond for Allison to mind.  
  
Once their project is complete and successfully converted to PDF, Allison proclaims that she’s hungry.  Lydia just says, “good,” and pulls her towards her room.  
  
On their way upstairs, they grab a few snacks and one of Mrs. Martin’s wine coolers each.  The alcohol doesn’t matter to Allison, of course, but the illicit thrill still loosens her up.  Lydia gets a little buzz, drinking slowly to keep it slight and sweet, and they spend an hour playing dress-up.  
  
Allison’s legs are too long to borrow any of Lydia’s skirts, but they can share tops, and eventually she finds herself draped in something filmy and clingy with a hint of shine.  Lydia directs her to twirl and makes her try three different necklaces before the look is approved.  
  
Feeling pampered and a little flushed from the attention, Allison settles back against Lydia’s bed; Lydia spends a few minutes rifling through her closet, finally pulling out a color-blocked dress in a violent shade.  
  
“We’re inhuman,” she announces.  “So we’re going to look inhumanly amazing.”  
  
Then she undoes the button of her fly and starts shimmying out of her jeans.  Allison swallows, stares up at the ceiling.  When she glances back, almost reflexively, Lydia’s smirking at her, doing up her dress’s zipper.  Then she turns, apparently unphased by Allison’s gaze, and examines herself in the mirror.  She fluffs her hair and the announces that they’re ready.  
  
She does, of course, look inhumanly amazing, but she always does.  
  
-  
  
Allison didn’t bother to bring a fake ID and the wine cooler’s effect wears off of Lydia before they even reach the club, so they’re both stone cold sober.  Allison doesn’t care at all.  
  
They head straight for the dance floor.  It’s dark and thick, a strobe occasionally flickering like lightning.  Two weeks ago, it would’ve been crushing for Allison’s senses, too loud and too hot, the scents of liquor and bar food and sweat and arousal making everything cloudy.  Now, she doesn’t need to filter through everything; she lets it melt into one hazy ambiance, focuses in on Lydia and lets the other stuff drift through without registering.  
  
It’s not hard to keep all her attention on Lydia.  She’s a force of nature.  Almost everyone at the club is wearing something strappy and dark, but Lydia chose a pastel dress swathed with white.  Her strawberry curls look fiery in contrast, and the club’s lights catch on the pale colors; she’s iridescent, impossible.  A blacklight flares and Lydia becomes a spectral point of light in the shadows.  
  
Allison feels like she can’t breathe.  
  
“Come on!” Lydia calls, snapping Allison out of her thoughts.  “Dance with me!”  
  
So Allison sidles through the crush of bodies and presses herself against Lydia’s side and lets go.  
  
She loses herself in sweat and sensation and Lydia’s scent.  Men come and go, some she recognizes from school and others a few years older, but Allison doesn’t even turn her head when they speak and Lydia deftly maneuvers herself away from their hips and hands.  Even on the crowded floor, they’re dancing alone.  
  
After a few hours focusing on nothing but her friend and the music, Allison finds that she’s wrapped around Lydia, one hand curled possessively around her waist and the other low on her hips.  They’re moving together, Lydia’s weight settled back against Allison.  
  
Something low and satisfied rumbles through Allison.  Lydia angles her head a little, glances up at Allison through her lashes.  
  
“Did you just growl?” she asks, voice pitched too soft for any of the other dancers to hear.  Allison might’ve struggled to pick her words out between the bass and the crowd’s slurred chatter if all her senses weren’t so hopelessly, desperately keyed in to everything about Lydia.  
  
Allison smirks.  “Of course not.”  
  
She lets her eyes flash gold.  Lydia lets out a soft sound, maybe a sigh, and curls Allison’s arms tighter around herself.  
  
“Have I ever mentioned,” she replies, far too casually, “that I’m very attracted to power?”  
  
Allison laughs despite herself.  “I hadn’t noticed.”  
  
Lydia hums to herself, leans back against Allison’s chest.  Her head fits neatly against Allison’s shoulder, and she lets Allison take most of her weight, rotating her hips with intent.  No one approaches them to dance after that.  
  
-  
  
They don’t even stay until midnight.  A few minutes after eleven, Allison gets bold or comfortable or both and bows her head forward, letting her lips graze against Lydia’s neck as they dance.  Lydia drags them off the drag floor not long after.  
  
Lydia keeps her fingers twined with Allison as she leads her towards the exit.  They’re both elastic and giggly; Allison feels light-headed and loose-lipped like she used to after a few wine coolers.  The bouncer frowns their way as they float past him.  It only makes Lydia laugh harder.  
  
“Are you good to drive?” Lydia asks, falling into the passenger seat and flipping open a compact mirror.  She stops herself immediately, pausing in realization.  
  
“Of course you are,” she corrects herself, and smiles like it’s an inside joke.  Allison squeezes her hand before letting go and turning the keys in the ignition.  
  
As effusive as they were while leaving the club, the drive home is quiet.  Lydia mostly watches the dark streets of Beacon Hills slide by outside the window– but when Allison chances a glance her way, sometimes her hair is sliding back into place like Allison just missed her gaze.  
  
Allison’s cheeks feel flushed.  She realizes her heart is fluttering in her chest.  It’s so much better than the wine coolers possibly could’ve been.  
  
-  
  
It was part of their homework-and-hell-raising plan for Allison to spend the night at the Martins’.  She follows Lydia up to her bedroom, opens the door for her.  She feels hyperaware of her limbs as she moves to switch on the light, drops her purse near the foot of the bed.  
  
She lowers herself onto the corner of the bed and bends to slip off her shoes.  She unlaces them, thinking about the platform pumps Lydia wore, and shakes her head slightly, still amazed that Lydia’s feet can stand the torment.  Her mouth turns up of its own accord.  
  
Shoes removed, Allison looks up and suddenly her arms are full of five feet of banshee.  Lydia drops into her lap, one hand on Allison’s shoulder to keep her steady and the other curved delicately under Allison’s jaw, guiding her to the proper angle.  Lydia Martin is precise and accurate even with her heart racing and her scent shot through with nerves.  
  
She pulls back almost instantly, eyes green and wide and terrified.  Allison watches her eyelids flick once, her tongue dart out to wet the corner of her mouth– all tells Allison recognizes as Lydia Martin steeling herself.  She inhales, about to speak; Allison decides the last thing she wants to hear is Lydia backpedaling or asking permission.  
  
So she closes her eyes and then the space between their mouths, kissing Lydia hard.  
  
Lydia swallows down a squeak of surprise– it’s probably the cutest sound Allison’s ever heard– and throws her arms around Allison’s shoulders, surging forward.  Allison’s newly supernatural coordination lets her down for a second and she overbalances, tipping backwards onto the bed; Lydia scrambles to compensate, probably trying to keep her knees from landing anywhere vulnerable, and ends up pitching forward as well.  
  
They both erupt into laughter.  
  
When Allison turns to look at Lydia, still trying to catch her breath, she sees a smudge of her own lipstick across Lydia’s mouth.  Her last giggles evaporate instantly, replaced by something heavy and possessive.  Lydia goes still, apparently at the look on Allison’s face.  Allison reaches out, presses a thumb into the bloom of red, smears it a little.  
  
Lydia catches Allison’s hand.  She holds it for a second, biting her lip.  
  
“You like having marked me,” she says, and it starts out as a question but it doesn’t end that way.  
  
Allison scrunches up her nose, not liking the sound of that– but then Lydia’s smiling, and her scent is the least nervous it’s been all night, and maybe it’s okay.  
  
Lydia releases Allison’s hand.  She reaches out, and slowly– so slowly– draws her index finger across Allison’s bottom lip, bowing it out a little.  She brings her hand up to her own face, sweeps the pigment across her own mouth, messy and heedless.  It’s not enough to really stain her lips, but it smears everywhere, and it looks– really, really good.  
  
Allison shifts up to kneeling and moves to straddle Lydia, bracketing her face between her hands.  Lydia’s heart’s still pounding, the sound of it deafening in the quiet house.  But she smells like relief and happiness and excitement, only good things.  Allison leans down, drops another kiss on Lydia’s lips, this one quick and chaste.  Lydia’s lips part softly as Allison draws back, and Allison smiles.  She lowers herself onto her elbows, keeping their bodies close, and brushes her cheeks across Lydia’s, nuzzles her forehead into the space under Lydia’s jaw.  
  
Their scents melt together at the gesture.  It’s thick and heady, held in by Allison’s hair draping around Lydia’s shoulders, a pocket of air that’s just the two of them.  Allison feels the same contented rumble at the base of her throat, this one even softer and smoother, practically a purr.  
  
Lydia’s hands have drifted up to Allison’s back, running gently up and down her spine.  “Am I yours now?”  
  
Her tone is light, confident and teasing and almost a challenge.  Allison grins.  
  
“Pretty sure I’m yours, actually,” she says, and presses a few kisses to Lydia’s neck, another to her collarbone.  Lydia makes a low, contented noise of her own.  
  
“Evidence does seem to suggest,” she agrees.  
  
Then she narrows her eyes the way she always does before doing something daring, and snaps one of Allison’s bra straps through her clingy club shirt.  Allison shrieks, half surprise and half delight.  
  
“Don’t tease the wolf, Martin,” she cries, and then gathers Lydia up, supernatural speed making it the work of a second to press her against the headboard and pin her wrists above her head.  
  
-  
  
The next morning, all of Allison’s hickeys are healed, but Lydia’s got a narrow line of them just under her ribs.  They’re both covered in lipstick.  The shade is fabulous for Lydia’s skin tone, too.


End file.
